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English: The Power to Change Lives

 And yet another novel I’m reading ends but I'm still mourning the death of the character. That's who I am when it comes to fiction, no matter a novel or a blockbuster. I get so caught up in the life of the characters that I forget for a tiny moment what reality is. I celebrate characters' achievements as if they were my own and their deaths like they were part of my life. My friends thinks I get too involved in the fiction characters' life more than my own, and it is true. But that is only because I see the beauty in writing, whether it is a novel, a screenplay or a drama script.

Writers have the ability of a higher power. They can choose what happens in the plot, which characters they want to destroy, or where the plot should be set.  They have the world in their hands when they start writing, whether they know it or not. That is the kind of power one can only dream of in reality. What draws me to fiction is the power to change lives of audience just by cleverly putting down words and scenarios. The tricky part is to make sense of everything that is going on at the same time making it appealing.

Writing itself is a masterpiece because of how language is used. For example an excerpt from an author Jodi Picoult. “People say you can't believe in a ghost, because you can't see it or touch it or capture it. By that criteria, though, those people have to say that love doesn't exist, either… and yet most of us have experienced that in some form or another.” How many people can think of those two subjects being compared in such a way that they now have a similarity? How we use language to describe or to narrate a story does make a difference in creating a work of art.

I would like to be a writer someday or at least something in the field involving the English language. I enjoy making up scenes and telling them to an audience. I love reading. And I am fascinated with literature. Literature in English was a difficult course in high school and it took a while for me to understand the depth literature brings. Now however, I see literature daily, and sometimes I tend to over-analyze things. I have so many ideas I’d like to express with language and art. In order to do that as a profession, I need to major in the English field.

I would like to take up the major of English Studies. I believe this could help me gain an all-rounded understanding about the English language. I would be able to learn about English in the corporate and professional stream and English in the creative stream. This would allow me to broaden my horizons and not just focus on creative writing but also on other aspects the English language serves.

The English language is the most extensively used language internationally. It can open doors to many opportunities whether it is learning or working. English Studies will enhance my knowledge on different aspects such as literature. Having studied Literature in English during my high school years, I find it quite useful in understanding lessons in life. Literature has enriched my social and cultural knowledge because of centuries of writers and critics trying to explore a deeper meaning within some simple English text.

I want to major in English Studies because English is a beautiful language. It is more than just words strung together to form a comprehendible sentence. Like everything and everyone, the English language has a history, and I want to know learn about it. Whether it is learning from a novel, a philosopher, a movie, a drama script or even a piece of poetry. If there is a message, I want to learn about it. Exploring the English language can lead me to my dream job. One day, it would be someone else sobbing over the ending of a novel I wrote.

UE: Sacrifices of a Mother

A lady who has sacrificed most of her life to raising her family has gracefully aged with time. She looks as if she is in her late thirties, of course, a woman as beautiful as her is able to defy the passing of time. As usual, she was standing in the kitchen with one hand on her hips and the other clutching a pair of tongs. The soft sizzling of oil and aroma of fried chicken floats to the living room where I stood. I walk to the kitchen and watch her cook like I had as a kid. Her curtain-long black hair is twisted into a bun on top of her head, bobbing as she hums the tune I know by heart. She seems to be the same woman who raised me, but something was definitely different about her.

A second glance was all it took for me to realize how much she has aged. Silver strands edges its way out of the shiny black threatening to expose her true age. Her face, once smooth, is now wrinkled. Her features are more prominent as if she was a skilled masterpiece of Donatello. Those chocolate-brown eyes use to glimmer with pride for her children's achievements, now seem tired more than anything. But the smile plastered on her face contrasts her eyes. It was the smile of bravery, a soldier ready for war, reassuring me that she is doing just fine. Her clothes matches that of a woman decades older. She never wears anything fancy, usually sporting plain blue denim jeans, along with an ancient floral designed button-up polo. And she never sprays on perfume. She had the scent of lemon and fabric softener for as long as I could remember.

I notice her hands were rougher than sand paper as she sets a plate of food on the table in front of me. Once again, the past comes flooding back to me. Delicious, appetizing food set right in front of me, yet I refuse to eat until I get what I want. I sat there for two hours refusing a good meal-fried chicken with rice and veggies-wanting something my parents couldn't afford. I wanted a blue with yellow stripped remote controlled toy car. Ashamed, I stuffed down everything until you could see your own reflection on the plate. Only then I was able to look at my mother.

She was already dozing off on the white leather couch, breathing out soft sighs. Under the florescent light of the living room, she seems more fragile and vulnerable. You wouldn't know it from her tiny frame that she has given birth to six children, all more than ten years ago; that she struggled day and night to get her family through the tough situation. The dark circles under her eyes contrasting her ghostly complexion gave away her age.

I wonder whether this was the life she planned out when she was young. Whether she regrets any decisions she made, or thinks about what-ifs. Because if I had to sacrifice all that she has, I would dread waking up. Before I leave for school, I lay a blanket on top of her body as she once had done for me every night as a toddler; our roles reversed.